And my own work, what refuge can it offer
against the dull hell of other people's writing?
Projects half begun, never finished
Juvenile fantasies of jazz piano
And lipstick ladies?
Lame parodies of Pound's Confucianism
Addictions to self-improvement
And the memorization of Keats
Always under and overconfident at the same time
Even self-criticism inert, leading only
To more stupid bachelor breakfast tricks